More Impossible than Living
by tiggeryumyum
Summary: Glenn and Daryl are captured during a scouting trip and things quickly go from bad to horrific.  For the kinkmeme prompt "Glenn gets raped and Daryl picks up the pieces, hurt/comfort" Warnings: *NON-CON*
1. Chapter 1

They find Merle again, after a three day drive from Bessemer. They aren't looking for him, or Glenn isn't at least, and they probably would've driven right past him if it hadn't been for that detour to the river for fresh water.

"Daryl?"

"What."

"Is that a snake?"

"Is _what_ a snake?"

"That sound – that hiss?"

Daryl's quiet for a moment, then curses with every ounce of his little hillbilly heart, bounding up the incline, running all out toward their jeep. It's just the two of them out here, Glenn and Daryl, scouting ahead of the group camp in Bessemer. It pretty much went without saying that Daryl was going to be one of the people going, and Daryl picked Glenn to go with him, for reasons unknown to Glenn at this point in time. Don't get him wrong, Glenn knows he's useful, but in more of an urban setting. Out in the open fields and forests, he's kind of lost.

"_Motherfucker_ – " Daryl's clearly agitated by the time Glenn catches up, still hauling the tanks of fresh water they trooped down to the river to gather. Daryl's sort of jumping around, weapon up and armed, aiming into the surrounding forest. Glenn hoists the water into the back of the jeep as quick as he can, then grabs for his own rifle. He's not entirely sure what they're aiming at, scanning the horizon, fingers itching to pull the trigger, shoulder tensing in anticipation of the kickback.

"I'm guessing it wasn't a snake?" Glenn asks after a moment of silence.

"Our tires got slashed. Some _asshole_ - " Daryl raises his voice here, as if expecting said asshole to be within hearing distance, and with decent enough moral fiber to be shamed by this. Glenn imagines them kicking at the dirt, muttering _shucks_. "Slashed our motherfucking tires!"

Glenn's mouth goes dry. Walkers don't slash tires. This is a new danger, one he's not really prepared for. They should've sent Rick, should've sent Rick, the thought thrums through him like a heartbeat.

"Take another step, asswipe," Daryl suddenly growls, eyes zeroing in on his target. It takes another moment for Glenn to make him out, a large man, hiding just inside the foliage – followed by another large man. And another. And another, and pretty quickly, what Glenn felt was a pretty imposing force, two men with a crossbow and rifle trying to defend their jeep, just isn't.

Glenn doesn't drop his weapon, though, swallowing hard and following Daryl's lead. He's still got his crossbow aimed at the first guy's forehead, and if Daryl decides to go for it, Glenn'll be ready to back him up. He keeps his rifle bouncing between the targets.

"So, what the fuck?" Is all Daryl says after a beat.

"Not very smart to leave your car like that," says one of the men.

"Thanks a fucking load," Daryl is _pissed_. He's grinding out the words like he forged them himself in the hellfire of his stomach. "You gonna tell us what you want or should we just skip to the beating?"

Something cold, metal and circular is pressed to the back of Glenn's neck. His poor, worn heart, already going entirely too fast, is whipped into overtime. "Daryl," he whispers, out of fear of startling the man, and because his throat isn't exactly in working order at the moment. The pistol at the back of his head cocks.

Daryl gives the man that snuck up behind them a double take, then sneers, and drops his crossbow.

x

"No girls." The guy who says this is huge, obviously the group's Tank. He drops the duffel bags he stole from their jeep into the back of a truck that pulled up not moments after Daryl and Glenn's hands were tied behind their backs. "No porn. Food and weapons, though. Water. Half a tank of gas."

"Nice," one of the men says. This is the guy who held a pistol to his head as their hands were tied. Glenn dubs him Asshole.

Asshole's looking over the both of them, head to toe. Sizing them up. Glenn's always been small, used to being seen as small, as non-threatening, and he's learned to work that to his advantage. It's only just now, though, that he sees Daryl through Asshole's eyes and realizes Daryl's only a handful of inches taller than Glenn himself. Not small, really, but stocky. There's a solidness to Daryl, coiled up strength, it's saved him dozens of times now, and Glenn finds himself annoyed that Asshole is clearly overlooking it, marking Daryl as an easy target. This will only play to their advantage later, he knows, but still. It's annoying. He can practically hear Daryl's teeth grinding in agreement.

"Some entertainment tonight?" This spindly guy sitting behind the wheel of the truck says it. He's small, too, and he's sneering at Daryl and Glenn, playing it up because he knows he'd be in their shoes if the circumstances were tossed around a bit. Glenn grew very used to these types in high school, the suck up, the Wormtongue, and they're always the first to suggest a beating.

"I donno. This one's kinda squirrelly lookin," says Tank, poking Daryl so hard with the barrel of his riffle that he stumbles. Glenn makes an abortive gesture to – what? Help Daryl form falling? Stop the guy from pushing him? The men find the idea that Glenn could do anything to stop this situation as laughable as Glenn does, snorting to each other and grabbing Glenn by the scruff of his shirt, jerking him harshly.

They're tossed into the back of the truck, hogtied, and within moments they're heading down that dirt road.

"You're not squirrelly," Glenn mutters under his breath, face still pressed against the dirty metal of the truck bed as they bounce along. Daryl proceeds to stare at him as if he were insane, and Glenn supposes he can understand, but still. After the walking dead, mundane evil of humanity isn't enough to shake him anymore, not really.

That is, until Daryl hisses between his teeth, "You got any idea what they're gonna do to us?"

Glenn frowns. "Ransack our supplies? Leave us to die when they're done?"

Daryl stares, eyes dark. Glenn knows he's missing something, but. "I don't think they're gonna – _kill_ us, right? I mean, they obviously don't see us as threats. They've got all our weapons," Glenn says. Daryl shakes his head, saying nothing, and Glenn feels his fear beginning to rise. "What would they have to gain?"

Daryl just grunts, rolls so his back, and wiggling hands, face Glenn. "Get over here. I'm gonna try to get you loose. We can make a jump for it."

The thought of jumping from a moving vehicle is hardly Glenn's favorite, but _getting over there_ proves to be the bigger problem. Glenn's been wrapped up tight, hogtied, and struggles to even wiggle. The truck takes a sharp left turn, suddenly sliding Glenn, and the duffel bags, straight into Daryl's back and hands, but before Daryl can get anywhere with Glenn's knots, the ride's over. They've arrived.

"Ooh, got a pretty one," a new man says, mockingly, once he's yanked the back of the truck open, manhandling Glenn with about as much care as Tank does the duffel bags, harsh enough to get a surprised yelp out of him.

"Pretty?" Wormtongue is sneering. Jesus, this guy has issues.

"Prettier than you," another man laughs. He only gets a glimpse of the outside of the building he's being carried into, sees walls made of concrete, reinforced with sandbags, and bodies. Lots of bodies. Too old to tell if they were walkers or just meals.

"Eh, no accounting for taste," says yet another new voice. Glenn looks up in surprise. There's at least nine people here, nine _living_, breathing people, which is, sadly, a unique sight these days.

"Have to see what Merle thinks."

Glenn freezes. _Merle_. He sneaks a glance at Daryl, who's heard it, too, eyes wide. Is it possible? Merle is kind of a rare name, right? Unless that kind of name never goes out of style in the hills.

"_Merle?_ Merle Dixon, you in there?" Daryl hollers at the top of his lungs, fighting the ropes as much as possible. "You tell these piece of shit boys here to cut me loose, Merle!"

They're in the center of the building now, and a silence falls over the group. Nine, ten . . . Glenn counts fifteen men. All frozen and staring as Daryl wiggles. A door opens.

"Daryl?"

Merle Dixon.

x

Glenn's tossed in some back room so quickly he's not entirely sure what happened, surprised to see that his hands are free. The door's double bolted, the window's barred, and shoved into a corner there's a filthy mattress with enough stains that Glenn would really rather sit on the concrete floor, thanks all the same.

There's not much to do in there but wonder what the heck he should make out of Merle Dixon's presence – he doesn't need anything profound, just. Is it good or bad?

Merle and Glenn got along. Sort of. As much as possible? Merle mostly ignored Glenn, and Glenn got supplies when Merle asked for them. They never fought, because Glenn never rose to his bait. He could tell a wild animal when he saw one, knew to keep his distance, and he's not particularly surprised that Merle's fallen into a group of men as dangerous as he is.

_'No girls, no porn,'_ Tank had said. Glenn shudders and, despite everything, is glad that they decided scout ahead, that Lori and Carol and – Jesus, Sophie, weren't caught in this mess. _Sorry, assholes, but if you want it that bad maybe you should just go grope a walker._

The door starts clunking and shifting as it's unlocked, swinging open and Asshole's standing there with a friend, a man thin and tall like a scarecrow. They kick the door shut behind them.

"Pretty nice, huh?" Asshole says. He's got a drink in his hand, undoubtedly alcoholic and Glenn's hit with a sudden wave of jealousy. The strength of it is honestly surprising, and it's not for the drink itself, but for the way the man sways jerkily, body numbed and relaxed by the drink. That sense of security – feeling safe enough, anywhere, to let your guard down enough to get wasted, to laugh at yourself when you fall back into a door.

Captured and tossed around like this, at the mercy of these two low rung dingle-berries, it's hard to believe he's ever felt particularly safe in his life. Glenn glares at the both of them, but he knows the fear is obvious in his face.

"Whatever," Scarecrow grunts. "I liked the white boy better."

"You know you can't touch him."

"I know it!" Scarecrow snaps. "Fuck!"

He's looking Glenn over, now. Same probing stare, up and down, and Glenn frowns. He's never really met many people who were _this_ particular about who they were about to beat up on. Because there's no mistaking that look, that angry, predatory look; the look of someone who wants to cause massive amounts of pain to something smaller and weaker than him. Glenn supposes Daryl wasn't completely successful in negotiating his release, and closes his eyes, bracing himself for a beating.

But the kick never comes. Glenn opens his eyes in surprise when Scarecrow crouches in front of him. He looks old. Maybe fifty, sixty, gray at his temples and lines crisscrossing harshly across his leather-like skin. His eyes are a disturbing shade of sharp blue, and they look. Hungry.

_'No girls, no porn.'_

It's a strange sort of horror that washes over him, similar to the moment he first realized that the stumbling, disoriented people clamoring down the street actually wanted to _eat him_, a profound kind of violation that's too horrifying to even contemplate until it's forced on him, until he's watching it happen, and then he has to, has to come to grips with it or die.

Glenn's learned to live in a constant state of survival mode lately, hair trigger away from fight or flight, but now there's nothing to fight with and nowhere to run. He still finds himself trying, though, pressing his back into the wall, and when Scarecrow reaches out – hands huge and skeletal – he has to bite down on the horrified scream bubbling up his throat, trying to squirm away, twist to the side, pull free –

_SMACK!_

Glenn blinks owlishly up at Scarecrow, his cheek singing at that sudden backhand.

"Knock it off," Scarecrow mutters, almost absentmindedly, pawing at him again. Asshole watches in the doorway. Smirking.

"No – this – you can't – " Glenn stutters, he feels like there's a mistake, like if he could just explain _reality_ to this man, this wouldn't be a problem.

"Can't?" Asshole laughs. He's – he's got his hand in his pants, rubbing at himself slowly, _getting off_ on Glenn's struggle.

Scarecrow is focusing on Glenn's shirt, eventually getting it up, over his head. Glenn's breathing starts to go crazy, fast and hard like an animal that's been overworked. Wild. Panicked.

"No, no – "

He doesn't even seem angry when he smacks Glenn this time, but it's hard enough to make the room spin for a moment. Scarecrow manhandles Glenn til he's face down on the mattress, yanking down his jeans.

A numb sort of calm, akin to denial, settles over Glenn. This isn't happening. This isn't happening. It can't be. But if he was the kind of person who could slide into the comfort of self-delusion, he wouldn't be the kind of person who could survive a zombie apocalypse. He hears a condom wrapper opening, and knows that it is happening, it is going to happen.

The hands on his hips, forcing him down, down, impaling him even as he gives weak little attempts to squirm away, clawing at the mattress. His eyes start to water, though he's not sure why – just the pain? The humiliation? The complete and utter violation? Fear? Helplessness? Probably a mix of it all.

It's pushing into his body, ripping open flesh, it's happening, _it's happening_, he's being taken, in his mind's eye it's not some skinny man holding him down in the back room of a testosterone fortified building, he's in the middle of a horde, he wasn't fast enough and he got caught, and there are dozens of dead, rotting hands forcing him down as he's literally ripped to pieces, held down and taken apart to feed some drooling, ruthless creature's hunger.

Except that should stop, eventually, eventually he should be dead, his body will collapse and the pain will fade – but this doesn't end. The guy's thumping, rutting off on him like an animal, the hot, wet exhales feeling like they're being tattooed into the side of Glenn's neck and his stomach turns, revulsion snaking up his back, telling his body to escape, get away, but he can't, his thighs are pulled further apart by Scarecrow, and he's stuck, he's impaled.

Scarecrow finishes, eventually, but he's not the last. The men come in at their leisure, overpower his shocked, starved, shaking body easily, and take what they want.

He can't really stop himself from crying, which visibly disturbs a few of the men, and visibly pleases most of them. He shakes his head no, he begs, he fights, he curls into the corner, but the end result is the same. _The weak get taken._ It plays over and over again in his head. But Glenn is not weak. He's really not. He knows he's not. But he also knows that he doesn't have the kind of strength that these kind of people – bullies and monsters – value.

The sun has set and there's no light in this room, but Glenn can't imagine sleeping. Can't imagine moving, can't imagine living, staring into the darkness and feeling completely disconnected from his body.

"– _know_ he's got a quick pair of hands. He's useful, Merle."

He looks up as the voices approach the door. Daryl. It's all he can think in a desperate, broken little loop. Daryl, Daryl, Daryl.

He scrambles to his feet, swaying wildly for a moment then diving for his shirt, his pants. Daryl's getting him out of here, and he's not – he shoves the shirt on over his head, stabs his legs into the jeans. He wouldn't be able to handle Daryl seeing him like this.

The door unlocks, opens. Daryl. Glenn wipes at his face furiously, he thought he was done with the crying but apparently not, the tears welled up suddenly at the sight of the other man, and won't stop pouring.

Daryl just stares at him for a moment, then stomps into the room, lifting his chin.

"They hit you?" he sounds enraged by this, and Glenn isn't sure how to answer, he feels like it's obvious: the pain throbs at various points of his body, and he's sure the bruises on his face look angry and red, if not already purpling. "Merle, what the hell?"

He's leaving – he's turning around to leave, to go talk to Merle properly, and Glenn can't help the sudden stab of fear, "_Daryl_," he can't be left alone in this room, he can't, oh god, he's sobbing, sliding down the wall, hands fisting in his own hair.

It's honestly a surprise when he realizes Daryl's stopped, bent down on one knee and put a hand on his shoulder. "You gotta keep it together, short – " his expression freezes. He looks to the mattress. There are used condoms tossed haphazardly on the ground, cold now and oozing slowly.

Daryl takes a sharp inhale, the hand on his shoulder tightening. "Alright," he says, cold and slow. "Alright." Glenn blinks in surprise, Daryl's forehead suddenly right up against his, looking him dead in the eye. "I'll be back."

Glenn still has to bite on his tongue to keep himself from calling out after him.

He didn't need to worry, Daryl doesn't go far. Glenn can hear the deep, angry cadence of an argument, Merle's grunts, sudden, hard _thunks_, what Glenn assumes to be Daryl punching the wall in emphasis. It doesn't last long, Daryl throws open the door again and paces angrily. Glenn watches.

"There's only so much Merle can do," Daryl says, finally. "'N that means there's even less that I can do. The dumbshits here call themselves the Hunters. Merle says – well, I just got back from bagging them a deer, Merle said that would keep you safe."

Glenn blinks slowly, feeling out the space of things left unsaid, gathers this information, piecing together the clues.

"The deer meat should last until tomorrow," Daryl says. "But I gotta go get something else, cause when it runs out they're gonna," Daryl shrugs vaguely.

"They're cannibals?" Glenn says. "They're _cannibals_? Merle's a _cannibal?_"

"Obviously being handcuffed to that goddamn roof roasted his brain!" Daryl suddenly bursts, defensively. The door starts to open, Daryl out and out snarls at it, "It's _occupied_, numbfuck!" Daryl shouts, kicking it shut.

Glenn might be having a panic attack. He's not sure, he's never had one before, but the immense panic welling up inside him certainly feels something like an attack, something that's afflicting him from outside sources. He doesn't even realize he's practically chanting, _oh God, oh God, oh God_ until Daryl snaps at him to knock it off.

"I got 'em a deer," he mutters, repeating himself. "So they'll – they'll let you be for now."

_Like they 'let me be' today?_ Glenn covers his face, hiding any tears, any despair, any reaction. "We have to get out of here. Daryl. We have to leave."

"You think I don't know that?" Daryl snaps. He's pacing back and forth now, hands in fists. "I'll figure it out. It's just gonna be a trick to get you out. They got four men keeping watch on the roof and a fucking mile of ground with no cover on all sides of this place. The only way I can see getting you out of here is a bloodbath, and I can't take down twenty men with a crossbow and ten fucking arrows!" Daryl frowns, kicking at the ground. "I figure. Eventually Merle'll give me the code to that supply room. Get some decent firepower."

Eventually. But Glenn nods. The realization that Daryl could escape – that they're trusting him to leave long enough to go hunting! He could put so much distance between him and this place that they'd never be able to track him down by the time they realized he wasn't coming back – hits him hard. Back in reality, Glenn never even felt comfortable asking friends for an extra couple of bucks. He doesn't know how to react to someone willing to start a bloodbath for him other than cowed silence, and doesn't know how to silence the sobbing, terrified child inside him, the one who's shaking at the thought of another day of this, another minute of this, who wants to cling to Daryl's pant leg and ask why he can't leave _now_, they're hurting him, doesn't he understand?

They sit in silence for a moment. Daryl is staring at those used rubbers again.

"Which ones?" he asks gruffly.

Glenn takes a breath. He doesn't know the names, but he can describe them well enough, and Daryl nods, committing this to memory.

Then it's almost sunrise, and Daryl leaves. Twenty minutes later, the door opens again.


	2. Chapter 2

Eventually, Glenn passes out. When he wakes up, he's confused, dizzy and shaky, and a sharp, blinding pain screams behind his eyes when he tries to move. He's given beef jerky, taken to a bathroom just down the hall, where he's allowed to drink from the faucet.

It starts all over again. He keeps waiting for numbness to set in, for his body, his mind, to stop _feeling_ so sharply, for it to get better, because no one can live like this, with this much terror and disgust churning through them constantly, but it doesn't. He feels like the horror and shame are an acid eating away his insides, leaving him sore and broken.

The third man who walks through the door that day is fat, large all over, and more than humiliating, this time it just hurts.

He thinks he's going to go crazy.

It just hurts so _bad_. He's whimpering like a child, he doesn't know what else to do, it's too much and he can't get away. He presses his forehead to the filthy mattress and sobs, body shaking with the thrusts of someone much, much bigger, shoving something into him that does not fit.

"You know, as soon as I heard your voice, I knew."

Glenn lifts his head in shock. That's Rick's voice, and - that's Rick, sitting beside the mattress, flipping his hat in his hands casually. He sees Glenn watching and smiles crookedly, kindly ignoring the massive man currently mounting Glenn's prone body.

"I knew you were gonna get me out of there," Rick says. "I knew I could trust you, knew it in my gut. And I was right. And - you know, when you came up with that plan, to get through the sewers? I though, _this_ is a kid that's gonna make it."

Glenn blinks at Rick's figure, which obviously is not there at all, mouth working in silent confusion, tears still streaming down his face. This is it. He snapped. He's gone crazy. He's gone completely freaking insane.

Rick smiles again, shaking his head. "You're gonna make it, alright? You're gonna get through this. You didn't get this far for it to end here. I know that in my gut, too."

Glenn is sobbing silently, but he nods, and allows the comfort of not-there-Rick to settle in his own gut, something deeper than the pain, something that will outlast it.

x

Glenn knows when the deer meat runs out and Daryl heads out on another hunting trip. It's his third day in that awful room, and he didn't appreciate how much they'd been holding back until Daryl's not there to check in on him. The men get rougher, crueler, unnecessarily hard smacks and kicks, before, during and after the actual act.

In a truly surreal twist, some of the men begin to cradle Glenn, pet him in some bizarre parody of intimacy and comfort when they finish, as if they're pretending Glenn is an actual lover, a friend, someone they lost in the apocalypse.

Glenn lays there limply and takes it, lets them pretend that he's their doll, knowing better than to fight off the contact. Even if it might be more disturbing than the rape itself, having the rapist comb their fingers through his hair, crying, using his shoulder as they cling. It's disgusting, it makes Glenn's skin crawl, but he endures it.

They them seem to be getting attached to Glenn, bringing in chunks of deer meat, which Glenn wishes he could refuse but dizzying, rolling hunger is more than enough to silence his pride. They talk to him, not seeming bothered by the fact that Glenn doesn't respond, just staring, blinking blankly as they go on about their day, minor complaints about the other men they live with, about how Merle's a hardass or how it was particularly hot during watch that day.

Glenn gets the impression that they don't keep prisoners very long, and they're excited by this new pet, like a farmer's kid who finally gets to keep one of the pigs as their own instead of sending it to slaughter.

He hates all of them. It's a new emotion for him, he's never really _hated_ anyone before, not even during the apocalypse, not even when working the fast food industry. He's been scared of people, annoyed, irritated, but this something new, something intense and cold, and Glenn looks at them as they talk about how they hope 'Merle's boy' brings back another deer, or a fox, and his fingers twitch as he imagines how much pressure it would take to crush their throat.

x

Wormtongue comes for a visit the second day of Daryl's absence.

He sheds his pants violently, like he's making a point, and Glenn stares impassively at the man's dick, which is small, reminding Glenn of some overcooked miniature sausage, and even his balls are pretty sad, hanging like deflated hacky sack.

Wormtongue glances between their crotches, anger and betrayal so clear on his face that Glenn can't hold in the bubble of broken laughter. He keeps laughing until Wormtongue smacks him, hard, sending him slamming into the wall, where his forehead makes a sickening crack.

He's a little bigger than Glenn (mostly, haha) but he's pretty sure he could take him if he hadn't just spent a week in literal hell. Wormtongue's skinny, obviously underfed by the rest of the men here. At the bottom of the pecking order. And Glenn knows he's about to feel the brunt of that.

It's the worst beating he's gotten here, or in his life, and Glenn starts sinking down inside himself, the hits to his face and body thudding just as hard, but distantly. As if he were in a fish tank and Wormtongue was tapping the glass impatiently.

"They're animals," Andrea is scoffing, shaking her head in disgust at Wormtongue, who is panting as he moves now, growing exhausted from beating on Glenn.

"You know that, right? They're pathetic," she says, leaning against the wall. "Jesus, look at him." Glenn laughs - sort of. He tastes blood, and figures that's pretty bad, but can't really bring himself to worry.

Limbs heavy and useless, Glenn's not capable of resisting and there's no reason for Wormtongue to tie him up, but he does, looping his wrists together, then his ankles. He uses the barrel of a pistol to rape him, the cold metal stinging, the ridges cutting inside him, and tears leak down his face, but this is distant, too.

Andrea tsks, hands on her hips like she can't decide if she finds Wormtongue to be pitiable or laughable.

"You're so much better than them. They can't touch you, not really," Andrea says. "Trust me."

x

"Jesus." That's Daryl's voice, and Glenn knows his hallucinating again when he hears a tremor, like he's scared. He's only heard Daryl scared once, and that was on the roof in Atlanta. And even then he recovered almost immediately from seeing his brother's blood, his limp, cold hand.

This Daryl doesn't seem to be doing as well, his hands shaking as he yanks at the rope tying Glenn's hands and feet together. Glenn thinks, anyway, he can only really see out of one eye - the other is swollen shut.

Still he smiles, somewhat, as best he can. "You're back."

He tries to sit up but pain immediately disables him and Daryl's helping him back to the mattress.

"Don't try to move," Daryl says. Gruff. Recovered. "Goddamn."

He brushes the hair from Glenn's forehead, stares down at his face, looking so torn up about what he sees that Glenn has to bite his lip to keep from apologizing.

Something wet and cold touches Glenn's face and he flinches away before processing it as a rag, a rag in Daryl's hand. It comes away bloodied. Daryl cleans his face with a sure hand, and it's not particularly gentle but he's a friend, Glenn trusts him, knows him, and he finds himself leaning into the contact, desperate for it, wanting to sob in relief at the feel of it. Broken enough that if he had the energy, he might just crawl into Daryl's lap and just sit there, knowing, _knowing_ that he was safe.

But he doesn't have the energy to do anything but lie there as Daryl starts on the rest of his body, cleaning in broader strokes, until he reaches Glenn's torn and bleeding backside, where his touch pauses. Glenn closes his eyes in embarrassment, in shame, but when he looks over his shoulder he sees Daryl just. Sitting there. Hands in his lap, face screwed up and looking a little like a child, lost and afraid. But it's gone again quickly, and he cleans away the blood with the same practiced, proficient touch.

"Which ones?" Daryl asks, tossing the rag over his shoulder, wrapping some cloth around Glenn's middle, which Glenn only realizes was sore once this pain is alleviate by the pressure.

"Just one," Glenn says. He describes the man and Daryl climbs to his feet immediately. "No! You - please don't - "

If Daryl attacks one of them, if he kills him, they'll almost certainly kick him out, Glenn will be left on his own in this hell, and he can't, he really, really can't.

"I can't just fucking. _Sit here_," Daryl's teeth are clenched as he spits it out, and his staring down his hands, tight in useless fists. Then he punches the wall. Glenn's long since realized that this is the real deal, but maybe if he was hallucinating Daryl, Daryl would be able to articulate his rage, his helplessness. As it is he just stutters out some swears, pulls at his own hair and avoids looking at Glenn's broken and beaten body.

Glenn flinches; he's become so used to a constant feeling of vulnerability he didn't even think to reach for his clothes, which are in a ruined little pile in the corner, crusty with come and blood. Daryl follows his gaze, then yanks his own shirt off. Tosses it into Glenn's lap.

He puts it on, but as soon as Daryl leaves he takes it off, folding it in the corner, not wanting it to get as ruined as he's become.

x

The deer must be thinning out because Daryl's taking a long time, this hunting trip.

x

Maybe Daryl went for help.

x

It's not even that Glenn fought before. He barely put up any fight, really, but there used to be resistance, his body used to tense up, instinctively, fighting off this violation as much as possible, but everything's . . . everything's just gone limp.

Daryl's not coming back.

x

They take him out of the room now, every so often. They sit him on their laps at the dinner table, and they feed him from their plates.

Glenn knows better than to go for a knife. He waits for the drunken daze of a good meal to settle over the group, then slides his hand into Tank's pocket, grabbing a pen.

x

Wormtongue must've been given a talking to because during his last few visits he's eased up somewhat.

He also must've had a bad day because he's shoving Glenn back as rough as he ever as, obviously ready to lay into him. Glenn waits for him to climb on top of him, get in close.

It's not something he could've done before. Even if he wanted it just as much, he would've hesitated, held back. But his body knows violence now, and it's instinctive and familiar, how much force to swing his fist, to plunge the pen into Wormtongue's neck _hard_, yank it out and then stab it back in again. The blood is new. A walker will bleed, but it's more of an oozing drip. Glenn falls back, hot red spraying everywhere, and the pen drops from his slick fingers.

The expression, too, is new. Walkers don't gasp, choke on their blood, grab at their neck and stare, looking terrified when they drop to the ground. Glenn doesn't pause, he kicks Wormtongue onto his back, grabs the gun tucked into Wormtongue's pants, his knife. He wants to shot Wormtongue. He wants to use this pistol Wormtongue raped him with, he wants to press it between his eyes and pull the trigger, but the shot would bring them all here within a minute. He closes his eyes and slices Wormtongue's already bleeding throat. A second spray of blood, larger this time, painting the walls and it's on Glenn's face, against his teeth,.

He scrambles off and away from the body, panting hard and fast, keeping the knife raised and ready, but all Wormtongue does is twitch and bleed.

"Okay," Glenn says to himself. Wipes at his face. His voice is raspy from disuse, when was the last time he spoke? For some reason this is incredibly important, and the fact that he can't come up with an answer is terrifying, his hands shake and he sits down slowly, trying to gather his torn and tattered thoughts.

He just killed a man.

He stares at Wormtongue's body, but none of the previous association he had with it - the rage, anger. It's all gone, and they seem childishly simple in retrospect. He feels empty, and slightly afraid, confused.

He just killed a man.

"And you're gonna have to kill more men."

It's Shane, looking savage, and his expression won't allow Glenn to just sit there.

He force himself back into motion, pulling on his disgusting pants, Daryl's shirt. He gropes for the keys in Wormtongue's jeans, but they don't fit the lock in the door. It's a twenty minute wait for the knob to turn again. The man standing there is Scarecrow, and he's so shocked by the sight of the room - the blood, the body - that there's no fight, no struggle. It's easy to cut his throat.

Scarecrow starts teetering backward, so Glenn grabs his shirt, yanking him forward as hard as he can manage, and ends up pinned beneath the larger, still gasping and flailing body. He rolls Scarecrow over with a grunt, feels sick at the sight of Scarecrow struggling uselessly to cover the gaping wound of his throat.

He dives out of the room like he's being chased, lucky that the hall outside is empty. He didn't even bother to look. He leans against the closed door, taking a bracing gasp of air.

In the bathroom he's startled by a scared looking creature staring back at him, which he realizes after a moment is the mirror, himself, covered, just _covered_, in blood. There are tear tracks down his face, when did he start crying? And he sees the mess that Wormtongue made of his face. His lip is fat and split, the right side of his face looks like raw meat, his eye a useless, swollen little slice of flesh.

Even covered in blood, he does not look like a threat. He does not look like a dangerous thing, like someone that just cut the throat of two men, and Glenn is forced to turn away with a panicked little gasp of air.

He has to kill more men. He tunnels on that thought.

There's three men in the living area Glenn was only whisked through that first day. They're big, Tank is one of them, and he knows he's going to have to use the gun. This will have to be fast.

He instinctively goes for head shots, and the first one, the one closest to him, doesn't even have time to set down his drink, head just slumping to the side like he decided to fall asleep.

Tank gets up, ready to rush him, but he goes down with one shot. The third man, fat and horrified, pet his hair and called him Jamie yesterday. He doesn't even try to get up from his seat before.

He knows it doesn't matter, Daryl could come back, he could bring with him fifty deer, the Queen of England and a cure for the zombies and these men would still kill him. He tucks himself into the corner of the room, reloads the gun and waits for the rush.

Asshole comes through the door first. Down with one bullet. Two more men, he gets one n the neck and the next in the face, always aiming for the head.

For some reason, the sight of Merle stuns Glenn so deeply that he can't do anything but hold the gun, staring in fear - part of his mind has become convinced that Merle is bulletproof. It takes until Merle is across the room, almost in his face, reaching to yank the gun out of his hand, for Glenn to test that theory. He presses the barrel against Merle's jaw and pulling the trigger.

Merle drops to the ground, just like the rest of them, splattering Glenn in chunks of human matter. He's still staring, somewhat stunned, when the rest of the men swarm him, yanking the gun out of his hand,knocking him to the ground, there's a shoe to the face and that's all Glenn knows.

x


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Sorry about the extreme wait on this, I had not one, but two moves! But now I'm settled in my new apartment and ready to finish this guy off. :) Oh, jsyk, I started writing this during the s1 and 2 break, and that's where the canon branches off. Sophia never got lost, they never made it to the farm, etc.

I KNOW this is short but I feel bad for the wait so I'll give you this little bit before I finish off the rest – I suspect this will be maybe three more parts (rescue, comfort, recovery).

x

_Well, I'm probably dead._

Back when the world ended, that was the single thought that kept Glenn moving. It's the reason he's still alive. It's the thing that pushes him forward when all reason and logic says _stay put, don't try, it's too scary, too dangerous_. Well, there's nothing to lose, he's probably dead either way. The fact that he accepted this is why he could make that idiotic attempt to escape that Walker infested pizzeria, why he pulled Rick out of that tank, why he kept going into Atlanta for supplies, over and over and over again. And, why he made it out each time. There was nothing to lose. He's probably dead. Might as well try.

He honestly thought he'd made his peace with death.

Glenn wakes with a panicked jolt, wanting to scramble to action but unable to remember exactly what that action should be - he'd been in the middle of something important. Then he remembers, and the anxiousness doubles, and becomes proper, all-out fear, and confusion. He's not dead. How is he not dead?

There's a smooth surface beneath him that's so aggressively cold it stings. He's obviously been laying there for a while, and every part of him that's making contact with the floor is eerily numb, the rest of him aching with the cold. He's shivering violently, uncontrollably, his fingernails a worryingly pale shade.

He tries to move, shifting around as much as his groggy, sore and beaten body will allow, clumsily rubbing at the numb side of his face with equally numb fingers.

He's in some kind of cooler, a realization that makes the odd, brown lumps around him make more sense: carcasses. It's a horror show - the inedible chunks of deer and rabbits and other, unidentified creatures that Glenn doesn't want to look too hard at, are piled everywhere; bones, skin, fur, heads and paws and rears. Glenn scrambles back with an exhale of surprise. The back of his head smacks against something - it gives immediately, before swinging back to hit him again. Feet. He follows the feet to ankles, legs - human. Humans hanging from hooks. After a moment of numb horror he sees that it's Scarecrow. Still wearing his bloodstained shirt, the throat wound is huge and gaping, frozen over.

The rest of them are here, too, up on the hooks and hanging like a group of nightmarishly grotesque marionettes. Glenn only realizes he's breathing too fast when it starts to hurt: even the air is cold, and his lungs are beginning to protest.

Cannibals. They're . . . they're not going to let that meat go to waste. Glenn feels a wave of nausea when he sees Merle up there, still in his grayed leather vest, which is more recognizable than his face after that shot to his jaw.

_Why isn't Glenn dead?_

Then again, his body is stiff with cold and isn't really cooperating with his commands to get up on his feet - maybe they left him in there to freeze to death, make him suffer through every second rather than just send him off with a quick shot to the head.

Jesus.

He doesn't want to die.

He could try to make it some kind of noble, say that he wants to die on his own terms, in a blaze of glory or whatever, but it's not the truth. It's just a crippling overwhelming fear, staring up at those bodies and feeling his own body's feeble, shivering efforts to keep alive.

The blood on his shirt has frozen, and is stuck to his skin in one awful, icy patch. He yanks it off and it stings, bad enough that he's blinking hard. If he starts crying now, though, he'll never stop. That'll be it, he'll just collapse and become another frozen corpse that they'll probably drag out to thaw so they can have some fun with him a few more times before they -

A wave of maddening helplessness hits him, he can't even finish the thought. He was _so close_, he doesn't know what else he can do, and he doesn't want to die, please, fuck.

_Where is Daryl?_ The tiny, weak thing inside him that wants to pin hope on a rescue is asking. But there won't be a rescue at this point, he knows it. And that tiny, weak thing is useless here. He squashes it ruthlessly, and forces himself to start moving.

Of course the freezer door is locked, and the metal handle is nearly vindictive, Glenn hissing in pain at the cold as it cuts through the numbness of his palm. Glenn shakes his hand and tries to regroup, taking in his options.

There are extra hooks in the back, and only takes about a minute of fiddling with them to figure out how to get one down. It takes another five minutes to actually do it, Glenn's fingers have stiffened in a useless little curl, fumbling with the screw and latch.

But he manages, and he also manages to tug the jeans and shirts and jackets off some of the bodies of the bigger men. He slides the extra layers over his own clothes. It's not enough, he's still shivering in wild, disabling bursts. He piles the bits of animal that still have fur, swallowing hard on his own disgust, huddling under them.

He figures it's working when it actually feels like it doesn't, when it feels a whole lot worse, as his body starts to become warm enough to actually register just how cold it is in there.

He hugs the large metal hook to his chest, waiting for someone to open the door, and can't stop that tiny voice from pitifully wondering, once again, where Daryl is.

x

Daryl never made a habit of pets. There was those feral cats that sometimes gave birth under their porch, but they weren't no pets any more than rats or sparrows, and none of the Dixons got sentimental about their squirmy, yowling presence.

But he didn't make a habit of torturin' em, neither. Merle sometimes did, and Daryl knew instinctively that it was something he should never talk about, something he should never consciously think about, if he could help it - how he'd find those animals all skinned and tortured and pinned to trees in the woods that made up their backyard. Cut open while they was still struggling to get away, dissected. It was just Merle's way and Daryl didn't have any right to judge. They were just squirrels and rabbits, you'd have to be some kind of city girl to shed a tear over a fucking squirrel.

But he could tell, down in his gut, that there was something dark going on there, the same kind of instinctive, whispered warning, the same kind that made the deers he tracked freeze if he was too loud. Danger. And he can see that darkness, that queer, unsettling danger, playing out again, here, in this warped fucking army camp.

And it's not something that Daryl can afford to avert his eyes and ignore. Glenn ain't a rabbit.

"What's wrong, baby brother?" Merle says, so smug he's dripping with it. "Look like you're about ready to throw a tantrum."

Daryl just grunts, giving his brother a dark look. Normally he'd say something, tell him to shut up or fuck off, but he's too preoccupied, so tense and aware with his plans that he's gripping his crossbow's strap uncomfortably tight.

Merle can tell immediately, of course.

"Somethin' on your mind? You know you can always share with old Merle," he says. Then, when Daryl doesn't respond, "if you want a turn with that chink, just say the word."

"You know that ain't it," Daryl snarls, angry enough to stomp wild and loud as he hurries ahead of Merle. Loud enough to scare any possible game off. That's okay. He didn't ask Merle along cause he thought it'd make for an effective hunting trip. Merle's never been patient, quiet or cool-headed enough for actual hunting.

"Right, right," Merle finally drops the smug teasing, voice going all gravely and serious. "I almost forgot. You want that kid to have a run of the place."

"You know that ain't it neither!" Daryl barks out over his shoulder. Come on, Merle. Please.

Merle scoffs. "I barely got you a pass. Skinny thing like that chink? You're dreaming, boy."

Daryl had bought that, at first. But he's been watching, he knows the men's routines, now. He sees how they defer to Merle's whims, he's got them jumping to his beat, licked right into shape. He has more pull than he's saying. And Daryl can tell, even though Merle doesn't go into that room and do those - fucking perverted things to Glenn, he gets some enjoyment out of inflicting it on him, on someone. Glenn's in that back room cause Merle's run out of rabbits to torture.

"Merle." Daryl lets it show in his face, how he's not playing this game anymore. How he's grown tired of it, too old to go along with it. He's aware of his crossbow, hot and comforting in his palm.

Merle narrows his eyes. Calculating. He ain't a hunter but he ain't stupid. Taking in the distance Daryl created between the two of them, how it's far enough for Daryl to aim and shot his bow before Merle could stop him. How they're three miles from that building, no one to hear his angry hollers but a few random Walkers.

Then Merle relaxes. Smiles.

Daryl's frustration flares up at this, and Merle either playing like he ain't got a worry, or actually figuring a way out of this. _I'm the one with the weapon, asshole._ Not that that would impress Merle - not that anything Daryl does, or ever did, impressed Merle.

"So let's talk," Merle says, and Daryl's upended.

"I ain't playing, Merle."

"Oh, I can see that. So little Daryl's finally standing up for yourself," he says. "'Bout time."

Daryl just snarls, not sure what Merle's planning.

"So you want my men to keep their hands off your boy," Merle says. "I think we can swing that."

Daryl considers him for one heart pounding moment, only aware of how little he wanted to shot his brother until the relief washes over him that he might not have to. Maybe Merle can listen to reason, after all? "Really, Merle?"

Merle shrugs, over the top and arms spread wide, generously. "Didn't know it mattered that much to ya. But you've made yourself pretty clear."

Daryl hadn't even drawn his bow but he still feels like a heel. He drops his hand from the handle, and takes a step toward Merle. Much like every animal that Merle skinned, strung up and left for dead. He's a shit hunter but he ain't stupid.

x

The door screeches open so loudly Glenn can only wonder how he slept through it the first time.

"Fuckin freezin!" someone barks. Glenn shifts a bit to get a look. It's one of them Glenn's only seen once or twice before, a pale man that's fat in a soft way, round and harmless like the Pillsbury Doughboy.

Pillsbury curses again about the cold, rubbing at his arms. The freezer is pretty big, and Glenn eyes the distance Pillsbury is creating between himself and the door as he wanders deeper inside. Fuck, _the door_. He can see the kitchen area on the other side, lit up a bright, warm orange. His body is crying out for the warmth that open door promises, but he grits his teeth and waits. He'll be colder for a lot longer if he gets out that door and finds himself looking at a loaded barrel.

"Sorry, Paulie," Pillsbury says to one of the bodies, and grunts as he hoists it off the hook. He doesn't sound particularly sorry, almost amused, even. Glenn holds his breath. Pillsbury's close, a step out of arm's reach. A little closer. He can't take any chances, he only has one shot at this.

Pillsbury stumbles under the weight of the body he's carrying, right into Glenn's reach.

He doesn't think, just acts. He swings the hook - hoping to sink the metal into the meat of Pillsbury's calf. He misses. He swept Pillsbury off his foot, though, and he collapses hard and loud - "_What the hell?" - _ and pinned by the body. Glenn scrambles to his feet, raises the hook into the air, ready -

- Pillsbury stares up at him, eyes moving wildly as he tries to register what's happening -

- a flash of Scarecrow's last moments, eyes wide and confused the exact same way -

Oh god, why is he hesitating? Less than a second later and the thought is, why _did_ he hesitate because his moment of opportunity is over. Confusion is now rage.

"Fucker," Pillsbury snarls. He surges up, knocking both Glenn and the frozen body between them over, and grabs Glenn's wrist, squeezing harshly. "Fucking faggot." he snarls his rage again, shaking Glenn by his arm, as though he were a misbehaving toddler, until Glenn drops the hook. Glenn closes his eyes, ready for the blow. But instead he's yanked forward, jerked out - out the door, oh, fuck, it's so warm it hurts.

"Why did none of you assholes tell me you stuck the whore in here?"

"Thought he'd be a Popsicle by now," one of them laughs, Glenn barely listens, doesn't care. Pillsbury has a grip on his wrist that might actually snap it, but he doesn't care about that either. It's warm.

"This little shit attacked me from under a pile of spare deer parts," Pillsbury says, and the rest of them laugh harder. Pillsbury makes a dismissive noise, then yanks Glenn forward again, this time he ends up back to his old, cement room. Scarecrow and Wormtongue's blood is still pooled on the floor and sprayed across the wall. Whatever, Glenn will take anything that's above freezing.

"I'll deal with you later," Pillsbury promises, then slams the door shut behind him. Glenn sits, shell shocked. He's waiting for someone else to open the door before remembering no, he killed those ones.


	4. Chapter 4

**NOTES:** Apologies for such a long wait seem ridiculous so I'll just skip it :P So I want to remind everyone that this is set at the end of S1. I was a little surprised to look at my notes for this story and see how much the characters have changed in two seasons but I feel like they're basically in character as far as S1 goes.

They find the jeep about three days from Bessemer. Honestly, Rick had given up on finding any sign of them, and once he sees the slashed tires he's ready to write off the jeep as a particularly depressing tombstone.

"It's been ransacked," T-Dog says, jumping down from the back of the vehicle, expression sour.

There's a pause. No one wants to state the horrible, horrible obvious.

"Well, we better start looking!" Carl says into the silence. "Do you think they're still around here, Dad?"

Rick clears his throat. "Probably not," he says. "You know, we should keep moving forward. They obviously ran into some trouble here, so." His words die out there.

"So they wouldn't stick around," Shane says. "Both of them are too smart for that. We'll probably run into them up the road."

"Right," Carl nods, then narrows his gaze to the distance, as if he'll be able to spot them.

"This is bad," Shane mutters when Rick's climbed into the driver's seat of the Pontiac, Carl joining Lori in the mobile home.

"I know," Rick says.

"We shouldn'ta sent both of them. We're high and dry without them, man. I mean, I've done my fair share of hunting but nothing like what Daryl brought back. And only god knows how that kid pulled off his city trips like he did."

"I know," Rick says. But the thing that has him gripping the steering wheel isn't Glenn's quick hands and almost inhuman reflexes, or the piles of meat Daryl brings to the camp every night. It's Daryl's flustered, almost defensive reaction to Carl's admiration of his crossbow. Glenn's self-deprecating laughter, easy going nature. The packaging isn't spectacular on either men, but their cores, the moving, working bits, are a kind of solid gold. They're the kind of men Rick was relieved to have working under him back before - the kind of men who might make mistakes but who go about their actions in a sort of oblivious belief that the right thing to do is what anyone would do and they don't expect praise or get on power trips for being acknowledged.

Rick's missed their contribution, sure. But he's also missed _them_.

"We are screwed," Shane says, breaking the lingering silence by slamming his foot into the dash in a sudden rage. "Damn it. _Damn it!_"

Rick can only sigh.

They drive.

They stop, a little earlier than Rick would've liked, at Carl's insistence.

"We can't drive too far. They don't have a car, dad, remember?" Carl says sharply, spreading his arms to emphasize his point as he heads off into the forest with Andrea and Lori to search for any sign of the lost pair.

"I guess we'll set up camp here," Shane grouses. "There's a good place to hide the RV in the foliage a ways back. Whoever jumped Daryl probably has their eye on this whole strip of road."

Shane actually overestimated how good of a hiding place it would be; after grabbing Jim and Dale and the four of them working to clear out an area, it started to look like there might one day be room to hide an RV in the general area.

A sudden, howling blare of a car's horn. It's an alien, incredibly jarring sound nowadays, and the group exchanges a startled look at the noise. They all drop what they're carrying, rushing to the car.

Carol is standing on the top of the RV, waving both arms as if she needs to get their attention. "Walkers! Walkers, they're - "

"'The fuck is wrong with you?" Shane is yelling as he runs forward, using his momentum to scale the side of the RV in three furious steps. "You want to send them right for us?"

Carol immediately drops back, timid. She points off to the left. Rick grunts, crawling up onto the RV, and once he's there he sees there's no need to wait for the binoculars. The herd that's approaching is so large it's visible to the naked eye as soon as he clears the trees.

It defies all logic. It's a gigantic group, as if all of Atlanta spilled out at once. The walkers span the horizon, bobbing in jerky but sure movements. It undead parade goes on for what seems like miles, the closest about thirty feet from the start of the forest. Shock gives way to fear, and Rick reaches out behind him, blindly, as if Lori and Carl will materialize within reaching distance.

"The trees," Carol says. "I told Sophia to climb up, off the ground. I think we might make it if we're in the trees."

"_Dad!_ Dad! We found him! Daryl! We found Daryl, Dad!"

Carl is crashing through the bushes, running excitedly. Rick barely has the presence of mind to go for the ladder of the RV rather than just jumping from the roof. "Where's your mother?"

"She's with Daryl! Someone beat him up real bad, dad. He's tied to a tree. Don't know where Glenn is but - "

"Okay," Rick says, forcing himself to keep a level head. To process the new information. Daryl's alive? He's restrained. This is adding up in his head, time they might not have, time they're losing as he stands there and talks. "Okay. Go with Shane. Shane is going to get you somewhere safe. Tell me exactly where Daryl and your mother are."

They're past the small ravine, about thirty feet in, toward the south. He sees Lori first, she's taking her time with the knot, nodding and talking to Daryl in a calming voice. Andrea is kneeling beside her, working at a second set of ropes.

"Walkers," Rick says, and grabs the first section of rope he can reach, yanking out his pocket knife and cutting through it.

Andrea looks up sharply. "How close?"

"Not sure. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. We need to get up in the trees. Andrea, go spot us a good climbing tree. Something that can support us all night if it has to." She takes off immediately and Lori's eyes are wide and obviously panicked but she keeps working on that knot.

Rick finally cuts through the rope and maybe part of him forgot that someone was actually restrained by it - Daryl falling forward limply takes him by complete surprise.

"Jesus!" he says, surging forward to catch him.

"He took quite a beating," Lori murmurs, as Rick takes the near-unconscious man in. "He's kind of delirious."

Rick's first, very useless thought, is that this man needs a doctor. Blood has caked below Daryl's nose and over his lips. His eyes are glassy, unseeing slits, there's a bump on his head that's angry and swollen and very worrying. There's no sign of sweat, either, despite the ridiculous Georgia heat. Just how long was he tied to this tree . . . ?

"Hey! This way!" Andrea comes running, but only about half way before hightailing it back the way she came, leading them to the tree.

"Hurry. I'll be right behind you," Rick says, and Lori grunts as she takes Daryl's weight, struggling to move forward. Daryl's obviously been restrained for some time, and will need water if they're going to end up in that tree for longer than a day, which might easily be the case. If he's gotten to the point of no longer sweating, a day might be enough to do him in. No cups, but Rick yanks off his shirt, soaks it in the ravine. Worst case, Daryl can suck some of the moisture from the fabric.

"Nnuug,"

It's lucky - a lot of walkers are silent when they approach. Rick jumps to his feet, takes a few steps back, out of her immediate reach, and looks at the thing that used to be a woman. She approaches eagerly, but clumsily, easy to dodge, and he can see four more walkers breaking through the trees. Five. Six. Better chances running than fighting. He turns and moves as fast as he can, trying to ignore the excited moans coming from the walkers that have caught wind of fresh meat.

Andrea and Lori are struggling to hoist Daryl up onto the second branch by the time he finds them. Andrea picked well, there's several thick, low hanging branches, but hoisting a fumbling, injured man several stories into the air is never going to be easy without an elevator. Rick practically grabs Daryl's deadweight from Lori, and she immediately begins scaling the tree. Draping the wet shirt over Daryl's shoulders, Rick grits his teeth, braces himself and hoists the man onto his back. Begins climbing.

He thinks it's a branch groaning at first, under the weight of two full grown men, but the scrabbling fingernails at his calf proves him wrong. Biting down on the wild, hysterical bout of terror, Rick kicks out once and continues climbing.

"Faster," Lori says, six branches above him. He can hear her barely restrained fear. "_Climb_, for the love of God!"

"Man, I can do it myself," Daryl mumbles in defensive delirium, reaching out a shaky hand, presumably to snag a branch.

Three branches higher and Rick's out of harm's way, and within reach of the pair above him - Andrea and Lori reach down, hoist some of Daryl's weight from Rick's shoulders, helping him prop on a branch of his own, leaning his weight against the body of the tree.

Rick collapses against the tree, lets out a shaky, panting breath and doesn't look down.

x

They don't seem to know what to do with Glenn. "Ain't no faggot," they mutter now and again. But they also don't see the point in killing him right away - not when they already have so much other meat, courtesy of Glenn himself. Want to be able to ration it out, eat something fresh.

"Too bad Merle's boy never made it back."

Glenn must've reacted, and Pillsbury must've noticed, because he laughs. "Miss your little buddy?"

Glenn just stares into the distance.

"You wanna know where your friend is?" Pillsbury asks. "Suck my dick."

It takes Glenn a moment to realize that no, that wasn't an insult. The man is literally offering a trade, and is so sure Glenn is going to agree that he's already pulling himself out of his pants, presenting his flaccid cock for Glenn to, presumably, put in his mouth. Some of the men guffaw, turn away from the scene, and others watch with bored disinterest.

Glenn literally suppresses the urge to hurl, panic welling up as he shakes his head, inching backward. But Pillsbury's got the idea in his head now and immediately begins pursuing. In seconds he's got a handful of Glenn's hair in a painfully tight grasp, shaking him when Glenn tenses, trying to pull away.

"Boy, just open your mouth before I knock your teeth out," Pillsbury says, yanking Glenn's head back cruelly. It's almost involuntary, though, how tightly Glenn's lips are pressed together. A denial Glenn just can't surrender, not willingly.

Pillsbury sighs heavily, as though his life is very difficult, and fumbles with his free hand, grabbing for his gun. "You know we got a pool going," he says, cocking it, pressing it to the side of Glenn's head. "Me and the guys. Most of em think you'll taste like Kung Pao chicken. But I have my money on Sweet and Sour pork. We can find out tonight if you want."

The man is obviously not bluffing, would obviously be more than happy to put a bullet in Glenn's head, and Glenn unclenches his jaw. He does his best to make his mind go completely blank, but it doesn't quite work. This violation is new, and oddly intimate. The fact that he's not restrained at all, and _could_ physically retaliate - bite down, shove Pillsbury away, kick and fight - makes it worse than before, worse than being physically overpowered and held down. Being a willing participant in this passivity, parting his lips and taking it as long as Pillsbury wants it. Eyes closed tight and hands resting in his lap. He gags, and it's a good enough excuse for his eyes to grow wet.

"Good boy," Pillsbury grunts, voice all tense with pleasure. He thrusts harder, deep and in, and Glenn fights to breathe, to keep from gagging, and his struggles make Pillsbury moan, and Glenn . . .

Glenn dry heaves when it's over, trying to purge his stomach of Pillsbury's rancid seed, and the man laughs as he watches. Zips himself back up.

"You know that boy's dead, right?" he says from somewhere behind Glenn, over the sound of Glenn's desperate, shaking gasps for air, which are really just barely kept in check sobs. "Went wandering out into the forest in the dead of night, walkers were on him in a second."

Glenn freezes, and he's just. Just broken enough, just beaten enough - he doesn't even believe Pillsbury, is sure that Pillsbury doesn't know any better than Glenn about where Daryl is, but hearing it like that, after . . . after that. Glenn vomits, and can't stop the broken sobs that follow.

x

Andrea's branch is the closest to Daryl, she's actually within arm's reach and can help press the fabric to Daryl's lips. He grunts in annoyance at first, until the moisture is forced into his mouth. Then he seems to cotton on to the idea, swallowing desperately.

It's around three in the morning when Daryl seems to gain full awareness.

"How many are down there?" he asks, voice so rough it reminds Rick of a driving on rims on a gravel road.

"Don't know." Lori's voice sleepy voice is a surprise from Rick's left. It's dark, and it's disconcerting that he can no longer make her out.

"How long we been up here?"

"Eight hours, maybe," Andrea says. "How long were you tied to that tree?"

"Dunno," Daryl says.

"I don't suppose you know where Glenn is," Rick says. He actually didn't want to ask it, not while he was in a spot so helpless to do anything about the answer, but it came out anyway.

There's a long, long pause.

"Oh," Lori suddenly says, her shaking voice breaking the silence.

"No - I mean," Daryl clears his throat. "He ain't dead, last I saw. He's in a bad spot."

Rick waits for elaboration.

"'Bout ten miles from here," is all he gets.

"The same kind of spot you were in?" Andrea asks.

"Worse," Daryl says, with a sudden stab of anger. "It's - this freaky ass group, calls themselves the Hunters. They jumped us, took our stuff. Glenn is still with them, far as I know. They get their kicks outta - hurtin people. Eating people, sometimes. Dunno. I dunno how he's doing."

"_Eating_ people?" Andrea sounds horrified. "Did they take 'zombie apocalypse' as a _challenge_ or something?"

"I don't know what those fuckers think," Daryl growls out, and the defensive edge doesn't make sense until after about thirty minutes of relative silence, when Daryl mutters, "Merle's with 'em."

Another long, long silence where the only sound is the sluggish steps of hundreds of dead bodies below their feet. Finally, Rick clears his throat. "Think they'll be able to survive this?"

Daryl's quiet. Nothing else is said until the walkers trickle down to a handful of stumbling, confused loners.

x

There are Walkers. Glenn had started to forget that. He stares numbly at the grayed, chipped fingers clawing at his barred window. There must be a lot of them out there. With fewer people, Glenn reflects, it would be harder to keep a closer watch. All it would take is an hour or so slip, for someone skip out on watch, or fall asleep.

He hears rising panic in the world outside his door.

"How'd they get this _close_?"

"A goddamn herd of em!"

"Rich and Marty are still out there -"

"Don't you open that door - !"

"_Fuck_ - "

He listens to the rapid fire, the men shouting back and forth. He hears the screams. He knows when they're inside. The awkward, dragging shuffle of a Walker is distinctive- this plodding but determined pace. He listens to them start to mill around. Bodies pressing into every available space. Greedy hands and teeth grabbing anything they find in their way.

Eventually the screams stop.

It takes the herd a while longer to meander to the back of the building, where Glenn's room is. He hears them just outside the door, and stares at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn. Waits for the door to start to crack under the weight of hundreds of pressing, hungry bodies.

But by the time the sun's risen, the shuffling herd has dissipated.

Silence.

Eerie, overwhelming silence.

He stands up, feeling a distinct distance from the movements, just observing his hand on the door impassively, as he observed the entire massacre.

The living area is unrecognizable, and the front door is barely hanging on by one hinge. It falls off when Glenn brushes against it on the way out.

He can't seem to focus on anything, not on the ground ahead of him or the road beyond that or the wide open space of the fields. His eyes glaze over them impassively. He needs something, something that's not here, but he doesn't know what it is, where it is, won't know until it's shoved in his face, because he does not have the presence of mind to start looking, or even think. To remember just why it was he so desperately wanted to escape that room, or why he should be happy that he's succeeded.

x

"Everyone here?"

"We're still looking for Dale, but - Daryl? What are you - "

"Got some unfinished business," Daryl snarls, yanking his bike off the bed of the truck.

"We can't head out yet, we've got to finish the head count and - "

"Then catch up when you can," Daryl says, straddling the bike.

"Daryl, you really shouldn't be driving on your own yet," Lori says cautiously, "If you just wait a few minutes we can take the cars - "

He doesn't bother to wait. About ten miles out, Daryl's vision tunnels on the road ahead of him, and he only accelerates, driving reckless enough that if it weren't the end of the world he'd be long dead by the time he reached that hell hole, that familiar building sticking out of that empty field.

It's surrounded by bodies, and Daryl sees -

Glenn. Right there. Sitting like he's playing with the dirt of the driveway, but there. No mistaking it.

Can't believe it was that easy, until he sees a walker's also spotted the kid, uncomfortably close, and who knows what's going through the kid's head cause he ain't moving or nothin as the walker gets closer and closer.

"_Hey!_" Daryl hollers so loud it nearly startles himself. He revs the engine, barreling off the road, the ride going bumpy as hell as he tears across the field. He grabs the first thing he can reach from the bag in the back, a crowbar, and smacks the walker with unnecessary force, ripping through its upper body in a messy chunk.

Daryl turns around sharp, sharper than his bike likes, she whines in protest as her rims scrape dirt. He lets her drop to the ground, engine still running, rushing toward the kid, who still hasn't looked his way.

This ain't right - there's something in Daryl's stomach, climbing up to his throat with a squeezing, warning grip. Glenn don't sit like that, all limp. No one sits like that.

Daryl kicks away the still struggling walker as an afterthought as he approaches. Slowly. After all that rush and hurry? But he can't help it. He's - he doesn't know what he'll see in Glenn's face. He's moving like a coward, like a child creeping slowly toward the lightswitch to make the boogiemen of the dark go away.

"Kid?" he asks, gruff. No response. Daryl drops down in front of him, one knee.

Glenn's injuries have healed, somewhat. There's a pale white line on his lip, a new scar. His eye seems to have healed. There's some new injuries, obviously fresh, but nothing terrible. Nothing that explains the black holes that are Glenn's stare.

Daryl feels suckerpunched, and doesn't bother to say anything else to bring Glenn back to earth. Afraid of what he might see when he does. Afraid that it won't even work.

The kid's sweating hard under several layers of clothes, and absolutely stinks of death. This is obviously how he survived the herd, but Daryl's not sure - that blank, emptiness in his face, how did Glenn have the presence of mind to pull that off? Despite it all, Daryl can't help the admiring huff of laughter. Glenn and the roaches, scrambling and hanging on by the edge, but they'll be the only things left, Daryl's sure of it.

The convoy is loud, he hears it coming a while before he sees it, and Daryl waits til they're right up on him before standing, making eye contact with Rick and shaking his head. _No._

The cop gets it, when the group disembarks, Rick and Shane are the only one to walk over to this side.

"He bit?" Shane asks, keeping his distance, eying the rest of the crew, making sure they don't wander over.

Fuckin - Daryl hadn't even thought of it. Jesus, is he?

Thorough and sure, he presses his hands against Glenn's skin, feeling for any mark through the layers of fabric

If he'd been thinking, he woulda known the rough touch would be the thing to break the daze Glenn's settled into. He wasn't, though.

"_No - _" Glenn gasps, just short of a wail, panicking, yanking himself away from Daryl, moving desperate and wild, like he doesn't expect to be listened to. "No, no - "

"Fuck - kid - " Daryl growls, trying to grab him again, but suddenly Rick's there, grabbing one of Glenn's flailing arms holding it steady.

"Sorry, Glenn, but we gotta check," Rick says, voice calm, but Glenn ain't hearin it. Can't hear it. And when the sheriff starts to lift Glenn's shirt, Glenn loses what little he had. In a wild flurry of arms and legs, he breaks free of Rick and scrambles back, curling in on himself defensively, desperately.

"Trying to hide a bite?" Shane asks, soft.

"No," Daryl barks, annoyed at having to say it. "Kid probably don't even know if he's bit or not."

"Need a hand?" Andrea's voice is a sudden surprise from road. Daryl's shoulders hunch in defense. This don't need an audience, but here they come, one after another.

"You found Glenn, right?" Sophia calls, voice excited.

"Stay back! We're good," Rick yells without turning to look, running a frustrated hand through his hair as he contemplates Glenn's shaking form.

"_I'll_ check him," Daryl snarls, not liking the look in either man's eye, not the way Rick manhandled the kid and not the way Shane would do it, neither. Not liking the way Glenn's sitting, like an animal in a trap, not liking the fact that assholes hurt and hurt and hurt him til the kid's higher thought couldn't stand it, had to scurry away to survive.

"Hey," he says, conscious of, and annoyed by, the hot stares of Rick and Shane as he bends down. Close, but not touching the terrified kid. "Hey. Sorry 'bout before, alright? We'll go slow this time. Alright?"

He don't expect Glenn to respond. Or to even hear. It's the same voice he used for his spooked mares, for the neighbor cat he had to free from the Dixon's barbwire fence.

"See? That don't hurt, right?" Daryl says, he's feeling down Glenn's arm. It's doing the trick, Glenn's relaxing somewhat under his touch. By the time he checks out his chest, down his stomach, the kid's sides, Daryl decides to risk getting the extra shirts off, over his head. Leaving Glenn the thin white undershirt, and when the shirts pop free of his head, messing with his hair, Glenn blinks rapidly, hard and almost coherent.

"Glenn?" Daryl tries. Keeps his hand on Glenn's shoulder. Glenn breathes a little harder, staring at Daryl curiously, like he just woke up, clearing his head. But he doesn't say a word, not until Daryl tries to coax him up onto his feet, to check his legs. "Yeah, there you go - "

"Daryl," Glenn suddenly says, dropping back down to the road, hard. "Oh, god. Daryl. I killed - killed him, I killed Merle. I'm sorry."

And the mindlessness is over, though Daryl kind wishes it hadn't broke. Not when it was replaced with this quiet, shaking sobbing. Crying like he's afraid of being overhead. "S-sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he keeps repeating in this shattered voice, staring at Daryl with absolute terror in his eyes.

Daryl feels cornered, backed into a wall. He can feel the other's stares, knows Glenn is too out of himself to know - what he's doing, in front of everyone. Doesn't know how to react. Doesn't know how to exercise this rage, doesn't know how to rip the world to pieces so that no one, no thing, witnesses this, this broken thing Glenn's become, the thing that his brother became, the thing that had to be put down -

"Stop!" He bites out, knows he sounds about three years old. "You ain't got anything to be sorry for. We gotta check for bites. Alright?"

Glenn nods, taking a gasping breath, visibly forcing his hysterics down. There's no way he actually listened to anything else Daryl said. He doesn't protest when Daryl checks the rest of him though. Nothing. Scratches, bruises, but no bites.

"We were worried," Rick says after Daryl announces it, and Rick's voice, his sudden appearance, visibly startles Glenn, who leans into Daryl's touch on instinct. Daryl, unused to contact, has to physically squash the urge to shove him back, away. Pushing the kid away at this point would be like crushing a baby bird in his open palm. Possible but unthinkable. The rest of them are coming down, now, shouting their relief to see Glenn alive, but Glenn's nowhere near ready for it, eyes flying over the group without seeing them, not really, panic rising.

The rest of the group stares in open shock when Daryl steps ahead of him, blocking the kid from view. "We setting up camp here?"

Shane looks to Rick, who shrugs. Might as well.

Normally, Daryl would be with them in the initial sweep of the building, making sure there's no stray walkers rotting away in any corners. But Glenn ain't letting go of his shirt. So instead he just leads Glenn through the building and up, onto the roof. Sets up his tent under the shade the previous occupants had rigged for watch.

They rest up there, Glenn sort of curling up into Daryl, all awkward elbows and knees. It's hot, too, but it could be worse. Glenn could be bit. Or the blankness could be back in his eyes.

"When can I see him, though?" Carl's voice drifts up from the ground below.

"We're going to have to be patient," Lori says, vaguely, voice growing muffled as they head back inside the building.

A long silence.

"You alright?" Daryl asks.

Glenn exhales slowly, and turns his face into Daryl's chest. "I didn't think you'd come back."

Eventually, the sun sets, and Glenn's warmth is a pleasant thing against his side. Eventually, Glenn gives himself up to guttural, hiccuping sobs. For now, Daryl just sweats it out.

x

NOT the end! But whew, not such a cruel chapter end, aha. Sorry about before, for real :P


	5. Chapter 5

**NOTES:** hey still here :P

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"Come on, man," Daryl mutters. He looks confused about having to ask twice. For good reason – he's not asking much.

Glenn should be able to do this, he knows, but his gut doesn't care about knowledge, and in his gut he can _feel_ it: going down there, into that building, broke him, and it will break him again if he gives it a chance.

"I said before, no one'll bug you," Daryl says. He's getting annoyed. Because Glenn is being ridiculous. So Glenn nods, ignoring the screaming, frantic warnings in his gut, because putting up with them is preferable to losing Daryl's patience, Daryl getting sick of him, disgusted – leaving –

"Alright," Glenn says.

He follows Daryl off the roof, down the stairwell, and the steepness, narrowness of the stairs startles him. He must have walked these steps to get to the roof to begin with, but Glenn can't remember . . . it feels like he's been hiding away on this roof for a while, everything that happened before that is a sharp, sudden drop into the dark, a curtain that's been drawn tight on his memories.

He moves cautious and quiet behind Daryl, like either the walls or he, himself, will crumble to pieces if they touch. Daryl was true to his word, there's no one else on the way from the roof to the bathroom, and it goes okay until he gets there, and closes the door behind him, and realizes he'll have to take off his clothes.

He knows he's being ridiculous.

He smells of death, and sweat. Filth is in every crease of his hands, on his face. He needs to shower, and he should _want_ to shower.

He takes off his shirt. That's okay, right? That's fine. His hands pause at the buttons of his jeans and he realizes he's shaking, horribly. Like before, when he was trapped – trapped in that freezer – fuck, the freezer –

Glenn killed people.

Glenn realizes he's dropped back against the wall. He's killed – people – but he – he had to – they were going to hurt him. They _did_ hurt him.

The door opens and Glenn scrambles – but it's just Daryl.

"You gonna do this?"

Glenn stares wildly, "I – "

Daryl's gaze drops to Glenn's pants, which are still obviously on, and Glenn's grip tightens instinctively, eyes growing a little wider. Daryl seems to get it, gaze going immediately back to Glenn's face.

"Look, man," Daryl says. "I'll be right outside the door. No one'll come in. You're good."

"Okay," Glenn agrees without thinking, tightly. "Okay, good."

Daryl gives him another look, then steps out for a second, reappearing with a handgun. "Figure you don't want me sittin' in here while you – you know. But that should make you feel better. Right?"

"Yeah," Glenn says, taking the gun, and the agreement means a little more than before, the now familiar shape of the handle is a comfort. "Thanks."

Daryl doesn't even nod, just hurrying back out the door.

x

It's been a few days since they all set up camp and Daryl's come down from the roof for food three times, not saying so much as a word before climbing back up. This time he comes down and graces them with his presence, only to kick them all out of the air conditioned building to sit out in the yard. '_The kid needs some privacy'_ is all the detail the hick gave, but no one, Shane included, wanted to dig any further. They made their way outside without protest.

"Think they're even keeping watch when they're up there?" Shane mutters.

Rick shrugs. Shane can tell he's annoyed by the question. Shane tries not to let that annoy him in turn.

No one needs to tell Shane what happened.

After they found him, Glenn had a kind of emptiness, hollowness, that Shane's only seen in the worst sort of cases: broken teenage hookers who were left to die by a pimp that lost his head from drugs or rage or both. Battered women that had been smacked around so hard and so long that they lost any sense of self, refusing to press charges. Dogs tied to poles in the Georgia heat, abandoned, hopeless and starving, not so much as a growl or twitch of their tail when they were cut loose.

Shane isn't exactly clueless about the kind of treatment Glenn probably went through. How a monster who's attracted to the idea of hurting another person could view someone like Glenn; young, boyish, smallish, weak, alone.

And it's a tragedy.

But that doesn't mean they don't have to worry about keeping watch.

"I mean, we can only see to the northeast on top of Dale's mobile home. We'd get a full view if we could get to the roof."

"I'm sure Daryl's keeping watch," says Rick.

"Yeah? Sure enough to bet your life on it? Carl's? Lor – "

"I'll talk to him," says Rick. He stands just like that, maybe walking inside to talk to Daryl, but it feels like more to get away from Shane.

Shane scowls. Right. Fuck. _Someone_ has to have a cold, critical eye. It's something Rick and Shane used to trade off, back before, back when the worst thing Shane ever thought he'd see was the bloody aftermath of a domestic dispute. Someone has to read between the lines when a slurring, pig-eyed husband says his wife can't come to to door cause she's sleeping. Someone has to question that kid in the heavy jacket in July walking so close to liquor section.

Everyone has a weakness, and it just sort of fell into place for Rick and Shane, which one would come into the situation with sharp eyes, who was coming in with a soft heart. It's why they were such good partners. Rick was the one who asked the tough questions when they had to deal with street women, Shane just didn't have it in him to second guess a goddamn thing one of them said. And Shane is the one who stared coldly when an elderly man was accused of stealing, cause Rick would just about fall over himself to help the poor bastard.

It was an unpleasant but necessary part of the job, and now, of the whole goddamn world. Sometimes the two of them disagreed, like any brothers, but it was never a point of contention between the two of them. They both understood when that ugly suspicion just had to be voiced. When that unpleasant little kernel of doubt had to be felt, cause the alternative would hurt way more than just a tiny fucking kernel.

But Shane supposes he can understand. This is a little different.

Rick had been really cut up when it looked like they'd seen the last of Daryl and Glenn, and Shane has to admit, it feels something like a miracle that that wasn't the case. It's understandable that Rick wouldn't want to question it just yet.

So Shane's trying not to be annoyed. But it's not like Shane _wants_ to question it, it's not like Shane's sitting there all giddy at the chance to poke and prod the Glenn and Daryl, question their general usefulness. If Shane had it his way, they never woulda gone missing to start with, and Rick has to know it.

It's not like Shane's happy. It's not like he got anything out of seeing Glenn all – broken.

Goddamn, though. That had been a sight. And that back room, the mattress, the blood – an uncomfortable, knowing silence had fallen on the group when they cleaned it out, burning the mattress along with the stack of mauled up bodies, the vague distractions they gave to Carl's questions. Sophia hadn't even asked.

Shane thinks he'd rather someone put a bullet in his own head before going through whatever happened there, that left Glenn the way he is, so it's not that he doesn't have sympathy. And of all the people for it to happen to, too. It's a crying shame on every count.

But it changes nothing.

_**BLAM!**_

Shane shares a startled look with Lori for less than a second before bolting inside.

That was a gunshot.

He's running so quick he nearly slips on the slick floor of the hall, he's prepared for anything – but no, he hadn't been ready for this.

Glenn is shirtless and shaking, standing under the still running shower. There's a gun in his hand, aimed at Rick, and a bullet hole in the wall, entirely too close to Rick's head.

"Hey!" Shane hollers, and Glenn whirls his direction – eyes blank. _Druggie,_ supplies the part of his brain that just refuses to accept the new set of dangers from this new world. _Perp's strung out, doesn't know what he's doing. Can't reason with him._

Not aggressive though, Glenn's stepping backward, into the shower, like a cornered animal seeking escape. But there's nowhere for him to go, he can't exactly sink into the concrete walls. Glenn's finger is trembling on the trigger of the pistol.

"Glenn," Rick says, voice soft. "Do you know where you are?"

"I – " Glenn stutters, eyes darting between Shane and Rick too quick to be processing either of them.

"Kid!" Daryl's voice is a loud, startling bark, and he shoves past Shane, forcing his way into the small bathroom. Loud, sudden movement is the worst possible thing to add to this situation and Shane falls back, waiting for a second gunshot. But no.

Against all reason it's Daryl's dirty, scowling face that seems to kick sense into the kid's head. Glenn focuses on the approaching men, and the kid's eyes close, his face crumbling in some combination of shame and horror. He drops his arm, the gun, his entire body against the shower wall before sliding down to the ground. "I – sorry, I don't – I'm sorry."

"Didn't I tell you to stay out?" Daryl yells, getting up in Rick's face, shoving him out of the bathroom, out the hall, back outside into the Georgia heat.

Rick doesn't resist, actually lifting his hands. "I was looking for you – "

"I told you to stay out!" Daryl yells again. "Both of you! All of you!"

"What's happened?" Dale asks, standing from the camp. Lori and Carl are there, too, wide eyed, along with T-Dog and Carol and Sophia, silent and staring.

"Just a scare," Rick says. "I spooked Glenn – "

"Scare? That boy shot at you, Rick!"

"So it was a gunshot?" Lori asks, eyes widening, hands tightening on Carl's shoulders.

"Maybe we should have this conversation elsewhere - "

"No," Carol's voice is a surprise, the resolve in it doubly so. "We need to know – I need to know who I can trust my daughter with."

This is the first news any of them have gotten of Glenn. The rest has been vague, unspoken silences and Shane can see they're all anxious, ready to have a frank discussion about it. They're stepping closer to the porch. This is not an issues they're gonna let Rick brush away.

"That's right, Rick. What if one of the kids had gone in there?" Shane says.

Daryl snarls, like he's resisting the urge to knock Shane over for the comment. "I _said _to stay – "

"Yeah, I don't know if I'm comfortable with a bullet to the head being the consequence for not following Sir Dixon's orders," Shane says.

"Shane's right," Rick says. "Glenn's not in the right state of mind to have a loaded weapon. "

"Wanna leave him walker-bait?" Daryl says darkly, but he knows he's losing this battle, falling back. "Even Carl carries a gun."

"Yeah, and Carl can tell the difference between his dad and a group of goddamn Walkers. Didn't you see that look on Glenn's face, man? He didn't know who the hell we were, where he was, but he knew how to shoot that gun," Shane says. "Next time it could be aimed between your eyes – fuck, man. He _shot at you_, Rick."

"You made your point," Rick says. "Like I said, he won't have a gun to shoot with from now on. Right, Daryl?"

Daryl sneers, rolls his eyes but doesn't protest. Just turns around and storms back inside.

An uncomfortable silence follows, no one quite making eye contact with anyone else. It's not fair. A monster shouldn't be able to take someone good, who did nothing wrong, and make them worthless, make them too dangerous to be allowed. But it happens. The good guys don't always win. And Shane can see this realization hitting each of them.

Except for Andrea –

"Where you headed?"

"I figure now that we've gotten the paranoid shouting out of the way," she says, walking up the front porch. "It'd be a good time for an actual productive discussion with Glenn himself."

"I donno, man. Daryl seems like he's got a handle on this," T-Dog says.

"I'm a human rights lawyer," Andrea says. "Daryl's great, but flashbacks, panic attacks, anxiety disorders, even full blown PTSD – I've got experience, I've worked with some deeply hurting people. At the very least I should be able to see if there's anything we can do to help."

"Or if he's a lost cause."

She gives Shane a flat look and follows Daryl through the door

"Hope she remembers to knock," Shane mutters.

x

"Knock knock?"

Daryl sits up sharply. It's Andrea, stepping slow and careful onto the roof. Glenn, seated beside him, doesn't even bother to look up. He hasn't said a word. Daryl hasn't pushed him. He can feel the kid's shame and frustration, and is annoyed, ready for round two when Andrea settles down on one of the a/c units on the roof.

"What?" he barks.

"About earlier, with Rick. And the gun," Andrea says, ignoring Daryl and looking straight at Glenn, who glances up only briefly, expression pained.

"I've never done anything like that. Not before. Not when – I wasn't – "

Daryl scowls, he's being way too rough, practically grinding the sharpening stone against the blade of his hunting knife, but listening to the kid stutter makes him want to break something. Makes him want to shove Andrea back down the stairs. Glenn shouldn't have to be explaining himself, not to any of those fuckers. They don't know.

"I just wanted to say, I used to get paid to talk about things like this, if you're up for it," she says. "And honestly, from what it sounds like, your reaction isn't all that surprising. It's almost textbook."

The bland, matter of fact way she says it actually settles Daryl down somewhat. He lets the stone drop, checking the edge of his blade, testing the thin, sharp edge along his finger as he listens. She's the first one talking like this isn't some end world thing, like Glenn isn't a hopeless nutcase.

"So what happened?" she says.

"I don't know. I didn't even think," Glenn says. "I couldn't see Rick. All I saw was a random person. But it was like I was back when . . . all I knew, was that if I didn't . . . do something. I knew I had to do something," Glenn stops there and covers his face.

Andrea waits another beat, then nods slowly. "Alright. Well, in my opinion that sounds like an anxiety attack. Triggered by the obvious. Frankly, I don't think you'll see much improvement while staying in this building. In my opinion, we should pack up and head out as soon as possible."

"How're we supposed to do that if he can't even have a gun?" Daryl asks darkly. "Think you can convince the rest of them?"

"Oh," Andrea says, a little slowly. "That's not what I was saying. Even when we leave here, he – you, Glenn, probably shouldn't be handling any weapons. You'll still have issues you need deal with. It's going to be a long, long process. I mean, if this was before, I'd be able to set you up with some specialists, they'd probably be able to give you some anti-anxiety medication. . . . "

Daryl sneers, turning away. She says a bit more to Glenn but he tunes it out.

Uncle Rufus went off to war, came back all wrong. All blank-eyed. Alls he did was drink and when he wasn't drinking, he got all trembly or ragey, thinking he was back in the war. Daryl was just a kid then, didn't understand what was happening, and the sight of a grown man in such a sobbing mess had terrified him.

There had been no fixing Uncle Rufus. He killed himself for years with the bottle, finally sending himself over the edge with a proper bullet to the head.

Daryl knows there's no fixing Glenn, neither, no matter what pretty words Andrea uses. The kid is broken in a permanent way. Ain't anything anyone can do for him.

And that awful, burning cross against Daryl's back – none of this would've gone so broke and bent if it weren't for Merle.

And Daryl knows how wrong Merle was at the end, but he can't help wanting him back, wishing they'd had a better end. Best he can do is see to Merle's affairs – and Merle left one hell of a debt in this kid, not to mention Daryl hisself.

Andrea's gone and Glenn's got his head tipped back, eyes closed, face relaxed. The damage is there, too, though. The paper white scars, over his eye, on his lip. The still healing cuts. The dark smudges under his eyes, the skinniness, in his cheeks and in the kid's wrists, resting on his knees. Every inch of this kid screams dead man walkin.

So this is how it'll end.

Daryl finds an odd sort of peace at the thought. The Dixon brothers made a hell of a good run of it. And there are worse ways to go – worse people to go there with than Glenn. And if it is Glenn in the end, mixing Daryl up with one of those bastards and shooting him, or putting the barrel to his own head and leaving Daryl to figure it out from there . . . Daryl's okay with however it plays out. With having his last stand at Glenn's side. He'll see this through.

"I don't think," Glenn says, quietly, after another hour or so of silence. "I should stick around here. I'm no good for anyone. They're right."

Daryl's relieved that Glenn's the one to say it. He nods, setting aside the crossbow he'd been in the process of cleaning. "Try to sleep. We'll head out tonight."

"You don't have to come," Glenn says, but at the same time he's wincing, needing Daryl, hoping he will.

"Yeah, right. Your scrawny ass would last about five seconds out there on its own."

Daryl closes his eyes and dozes, the sun too warm for decent, actual sleep for the first few hours, but Glenn doesn't seem to have a problem with it, passing out almost immediately.

Daryl finally manages to drop off, waking at sunset by a pair of panicked hands scrambling across his chest, squeezing his shoulder. It only takes a second for Daryl to come back to himself and remember – this is Glenn, and he's probably not even awake. He's done this every night so far, but it's still a fucking surprising way to wake up.

Glenn's blinking at him blankly, both hands on Daryl's chest. Definitely not awake, or he won't remember this later anyhow.

"Daryl? You came back?" Glenn asks, voice shaking.

"Yeah," Daryl says, actually not entirely sure what Glenn's talking about, but that feels like the right answer. Glenn nods, dropping back against Daryl's chest.

Daryl stares forward, into the purpling, twilight sky, letting his arm fall against the kid's shoulders.

He thinks about the kid's panic when Rick stepped into the bathroom, and doesn't know what the kid would've done if he woke up like that and found someone else there, or how one of the others would react to Glenn's panicked scrambling. If he'd end up sleeping alone, left to come back down to earth on his own. Daryl doesn't like the thought, feels something like important at the way the kid goes soft against his side, knowing Daryl, knowing he's safe with Daryl there.

Yeah, he'll see this through. However it ends.


End file.
